


Recalled to Life

by fish_in_fridge



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Reunions, Gen, Reunions, Valinor, because 'tis Valinor, but will get better, more than a little awkward at first, what else can you ask for?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2725520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fish_in_fridge/pseuds/fish_in_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One assumes carrying on his old life from the point where it was disturbed would pose no burden to a re-Housed. Yet the truth may not necessarily turn out the way one thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recalled to Life

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to Prof. J. R. R. Tolkien. If there should be anyone of my own creation, I will name him/her in the notes at the end of the chapters. Quenya forms would be used for character names in most cases, for the story takes place in Aman.
> 
> The title “recalled to life” is a borrowed motif from A Tale of Two Cities. My heart-felt tribute to Charles Dickens. I don't regret it, even though my shabby writing will appear shabbier to the eyes in its company.

When Findaráto rode out of the Garden of Lórien, he deemed himself well-prepared for his new life outside it. His first sight of the Valinorian country land justified his thinking: the path where he travelled was lined with trees that had seen many summers, adorned with blossoms of apples, peaches and cherries that would last many, many long months. They certainly were not as perfectly shapely as those bloomed in Irmo and Estë’s land, yet brilliant enough to meet the eyes. Slight gusts of breezes sent waves after waves of fruity fragrance to his nostrils, rubbing a sweet, invitingly nostalgic feel deep down into his lungs. The very feel that he needed: what else could be better than a long postponed homecoming resulting from an exile that should not have taken place? Findaráto took another breath, and urged his grey mare on. 

Guided by memory from his former life, Findaráto covered the distance from Lórien to Tirion at the greatest speed that he and his mount could manage. At the gate of the splendid white city his name was inquired, and when he provided it the gatekeeper saluted him with suppressed surprise in his eyes. Findaráto then asked whether the King and Queen were residing in the main palace; when he received the positive answer he thanked the gate keeper with a nod and a smile, and rode on along the impeccable marble boulevard of the Noldorin city, his heart pitter-patting eagerly with merry excitement. 

At first sight, the city remained much the same as his memory held it, its white walls and long streets and many flights of staircases gleaming with diamond radiance. Yet in some way the walls seemed even tidier than ever before, and the streets broader; the former prince began to wonder if the city had gone through reconstruction and repaint of some sort. It only struck him as an afterthought that a settlement built for mass residence had to look this way when underpopulated. And then, it occurred to him how empty-looking this place now appeared to his eyes. The streets were scarcely occupied by their former multitude of bustling pedestrians, and if a stroller or two did cross his path, they simply didn’t bother to care anything about the lone rider. And too few faces could be spotted behind windows and ion balconies: mostly women. The smell of bread being baked and meat being stewed had replaced the fragrance of flora, but it came all too scanty. From horseback he caught sight of young children engaged in their own merry-making, yet their number could be counted on fingers. He should have expected this, Findaráto thought. But he did not. And as a result, it felt all wrong. 

Each step closer to his parents’ residence, Findaráto felt a new surge of dread blemishing his previous peace of mind. How had they been faring, with most of their closest kin far far away from them, in one way or another? What a life were they now leading, running what remained a household left to them, ruling one tenth of a formerly prosperous people, through and out of darkness, terror and strife? What would they think of him, a wayward boy who weighed his pleasure of exploring a distant, unexplored land over his duty as son to his parents and lord to the Tirion residents? Again the recurring trace thought found its way to his thinking, that he shouldn’t have left; as it often did in his former life, and as it did in his Unhoused state of mind. Findaráto rubbed his temples, as he often wanted to do but could not when he was nothing more than a fëa. 

At the gate of the palace he dismounted, handing his mare to a stable boy whose face he thought he had seen before, yet whose name he couldn’t remember. It then occurred to him that most of his closer friends had marched to the perilous land of Endórë because of him, and now must have met wanton death no better than his own. He knew not how many had survived the sack of Nargothrond and were still walking the Mortal land in their hröar; he didn’t have the time for a thorough count before his release from the Halls. 

The page welcomed him all the same, almost cheerily, yet despite his broad smile something else touched the corners of his eyes, slight hint of grief, perhaps, and slight hint of hope. Findaráto returned his smile encouragingly before he began to ascend the grand flights of staircase. He could use some encouragement himself, and he should. 

The meeting with his parents didn’t turn to be the worst case he had anticipated, yet still it was not solely joyous, in an unexpected way. It was true Arafinwë’s and Eärwen’s faces lit up at the sight of their son, yet the interaction between them disturbed Findaráto as it never did ever before. The way they stood abreast one another yet facing strictly straight ahead; the distance between them that was never closed as they walked to him; the way Eärwen poised her head slightly higher than necessary when Arafinwë cast a glance at her, and thus their eyes didn’t meet... These were not the images he had imagined of his parents when Findaráto was on the other side of the Sea. And weird enough, he noticed them almost instinctively as he never thought could be possible, at a moment where he ought to be overwhelmed by the feels commonly found in reunion. 

Words failed him. True enough, he had been pondering what he should say all the way he rode here, had come up with not a small number of different versions whose opening sentence was strikingly alike. He wouldn’t have problem uttering that sentence, at the very least. Yet he did have. And all he could do was falling to his knee and burying his face in his palms. 

This seemed enough, though. The next thing he realized was another pair of hands covering his own and pulling them away, and a hand holding his chin so that he was facing whoever was standing right before him, though his sight was so drenched by a wall of tears that he could not tell whom exactly that was. And no, that one, no matter who it was, was not standing. It only came later to his senses that his mother had also fallen to her knees, and holding his face in her hands at her eye level, planting a kiss on his cheek now and then, while his father, also on his knees, was beside him, squeezing his shoulder, gently at one time and firmly at another. 

* * *

Most of his days were now spent in the gardens and woods either of the royal property, or of public spaces. In the first few weeks either Arafinwë or Eärwen took Findaráto out for walking, (though they rarely keep him company together), introducing all the changes that had fallen to Tirion, and the city life ever since the departure of most of the Noldor. Arafinwë did most of the speech on this topic, and he seemed more informative than his wife. The topic of Alqualondë was carefully avoided, though. They also inquired about Findaráto’s life in Endórë, but never pressed him when he didn’t wish to say. It was weird, and almost an endangering thought, yet somehow Findaráto found his parents not the right audience for his tales. 

When the initial months of reunion passed, Arafinwë could no longer stay away from his duties as the Noldoran: his workload was heavy, and only a few counselors and assistants proved true value in aiding his ruling; yet when Findaráto proposed to help, his offer was declined resolutely in Arafinwë’s customary gentle words. Eärwen, on the other hand, decided to spend some time with her own parents, and to prepare them for the reunion with their grandson on the Lindarin shore. Thus Findaráto was often left alone to wander the streets and the lands, to get acquainted with the remaining folk that he hadn’t known too well in his former life, to gather news, and to establish friendship. Despite its drastically declined population and the grief that its residents were suffering (different in it form than the suffering of the Exiles, yet close enough in degree), Tirion turned to be a sung home enough for its returned prince, so long as no one insisted on learning how their children or siblings had been faring in Endórë, for the fates of some Findaráto had no resources to tell, while others he had not the heart to tell. 

Valmar was quite another case, Findaráto had to admit. He could easily tell it the day his father took him to visit their Vanyarin kin. His grandmother Indis was as kind and loving as ever, though much more reserved and weary, struggling to live the example of refined womanhood that she had set in her earlier years. The only one who could cheer her and encourage her to that extent was gone forever. The look of his great uncle, King Ingwë of the Vanyar, was more inscrutable, and it was almost evident that he was hiding his thoughts of disapproval by means of his mind power. Findaráto, after all, was pupil of the Powers as well. The most disheartening meeting took place between Astaraurel and himself. The slight yet unmistakable element of censure in the deep blue eyes of Amarië’s father was almost unbearable to him, yet Findaráto had no reason to hold the older Elf to blame. After all, it was plain fact that he failed the trust of the Valar and joined the Rebels, out of no too good reasons. His reputation was now tarnished, and his character might well be rendered as reckless if it was the Valar’s most faithful followers to judge. What father would willingly marry his sweet daughter to a man like him? 

In the end Findaráto only approached his old acquaintance to ask after the well-being of him and his family, and he was content with the positive answer told in a cool voice. They were all well: that should include Amarië. And from what Findaráto knew of Amarië she respected her parents’ thinking as dutifully as any Vanyarin daughter did. Findaráto would not pose himself as a threat to her current peace of mind. He would not make her choose between love and family. Not now. Never, if it had to be that way. 

Yet compared with the welcome he had in Alqualondë, Astaraurel’s censure was only too light, too tolerating. Findaráto had expected an icy welcome; even if he had not, his father would make sure he did. Yet to face it and carry on his visit with it didn’t become less heart-wrenching simply because of the anticipation. King Olwë’s gaze was stern with disappointment, not unlike the one his brother Elwë Singollo had held when the latter found out what had happen to Olwë’s people; though when he broke the silence his voice was soft as usual, without any bit of similarity to the harsh, impetuous tone that Elwë always used.Yet in some way, it was more tormenting. What made everything worse was the way his mother held low her head as she stood by the throne of her father, almost sheepishly. 

The message was clear enough, even though it was voiced, and would never be voiced within his hearing. But all those eyes, all those eyes that were now falling on the only golden-head standing in the throne room of the Lindaran were telling him everything he needed to know. He was half Lindarin and had been held in great friendship with the Falmari. How could he just do nothing when their ships were being robbed and their people being slain? How did he manage to keep associating with those shameless kinslayers and followed wherever they made, after all that had befallen on his blood kin? They had millions of questions to ask him, and yet he had to take all the accusations and stand all the assaults on his conscience. Normally the Falmari were a reasonable people and would not hold the wrong person to blame, yet their loss was great, and when the ones they could rightly cast their blame on were out of reach, they had to find scapegoats to vent their resentment. The King of the Noldor had fallen perfectly into this category, and now, the King’s reborn son, whose deeds were more outrageous, had every reason to join his father. 

Now Findaráto came to a full understanding of the estrangement between his parents, and why it had lasted almost three yeni. He had resolved himself to bridge that gap, and was already making a plan his efforts. Now he saw how petty his previous endeavours had been, and all that he had done, and was planning to do, was but a beginning. 

* * *

The latest message coming from Endórë made all the difference. 

It came not from Manwë’s eagles, not from a re-Housed Elf like himself, but from a living creature disembarking a white weather-beaten ship. On his brow held a light that came from the days before the Sun and the Moon, and was almost believed by all that its like would not be seen by living eyes, ever again. And at its sight Findaráto’s heart missed a beat. 

Whatever divine purpose he had believed that the union of Beren and Lúthien signified, Findaráto had never expected it to enable the delivery of a lost Silmaril back to the Blessed Realm. True enough, the light of the Jewel was as brilliant as the first time Findaráto beheld it when he was but a carefree youth, yet back then Findaráto never found its possibility to bring pain to his eyes. Now he could only wish the precious stone of light could be kept a safe distance from him as well as from all evil. 

His wish was granted, though not for him. Eärendil the Mariner was assigned to sail across the sky every night, holding the shining Silmaril aloft as a sign of High Hope, for all walking the earth to see. 

Now the Valar considered Eärendil’s message gravely, and decided to take action against the evil of the mightiest fallen Ainu. An Elvish army was recruited, to be led by Eönwë herald of Manwë, Ingwion the Vanyarin prince, and Arafinwë the Noldorin King. Findaráto volunteered to join, believing he had all the advantage as a soldier: to fight his old foes on the lands he had once set his feet upon, even though it was confirmed by the messenger from Endórë that those lands no longer looked the same as when Findaráto left it. Yet Arafinwë managed to persuade his son to stay behind, with his soft, almost pleading voice, “Remain here, my son, for your mother’s sake.” 

And so Findaráto remained, taking upon the ruling of the remaining Noldor in his father’s stead. He had not been a very dutiful king in the past; instead, he took to temporarily leaving the running of the state to whoever was capable to assist him from time to time, and strolled out of his hidden kingdom to wherever his feet led him. Now he secretly swore to himself that he would not once leave his office when his duty called upon him, not before his father’s return. 

And even without his word to himself leaving his office would not be possible here. Now that the maintenance of Tirion was called upon a further reduced number of people, predominantly women and underage children, many of the Eldarin customs that were designed for happier years had to be broken. And some unspoken rules were harder to break than others, asking women to provide meat for cooking being one of them. Painstakingly Findaráto persuaded a reluctant Findis into leading her women out for hunting, and hand in hand he taught her how to use a bow and arrows to bring down games. With the success of this, the residents of Tirion could finally enjoy some presentable nourishment. 

Other matters he also tended to in person, to set an example for his people. Often he spent most of his daytime visiting the crop fields, orchards and urban workhouses, and only returned to his desk at dusk, where he spent the remainder of the day reading and pondering over reports under the light of a lampstone, and writing feedback and proposals that would be read and discussed during sessions of the formal council. If he had to work overnight, he would work, though not without complaint. 

The lack of capable advisers was a sore headache to the regent prince, a situation he had never suffered throughout his reign in Nargothrond. Little surprise did he feel when he found the most helpful one here in Tirion was Nerdanel wife of Curufinwë Fëanáro, and he marvelled at Arafinwë’s decision to retain her in the King’s service despite the initial distrust from his people and the deepening estrangement with his wife. Arafinwë was merely being pragmatic for that matter: Nerdanel, after all, was probably the wisest Noldorin woman remaining in Aman, and it would have been a waste beyond measurement if her wisdom were not well applied. In the end, Nerdanel returned Arafinwë’s trust well, and continued working for his son in a most down-to-earth manner Findaráto could think of. They never brought up the matter of Fëanáro’s rebellion, for which both were grateful. 

Years drew on, and not a bit of news about the doings of the Valinorian Host in Endórë. Findaráto had to worry about those passed the Sundering Sea, and it began to show in his look, together with a visualized regret over the desperation the absence of him and his siblings must have imposed on his parents, for all these past centuries. He felt an urgent need to tell his mother how he felt, yet he couldn’t even spare any time for that - how ironic it must be for an immortal being who theoretically has all the time of the world in his possession! Yet the sad fact is that they were just too busy those days, he and Eärwen, in different districts of the city during the day and different wings of the palace during the night, for all the pressing matters of a nearly dysfunctional Tirion. Thinking hard over the purpose of his everyday errands, Finrod sighed wistfully only to himself before refilling his quill with ink.

In the middle of another sleepless night his was surprised by a guest who entered his office without knocking. And it was Eärwen, bringing to him a tray of food and a kettle of brew. Only too often had Findaráto left his late night meals untouched, that his mother saw it necessary for her to intervene. Yet as she urged him eat and rest, she suddenly burst into tears. She told him how his bent silhouette at desk reminded her of her husband, told him how weary-looking Ara had been in the morning after severe lack of sleep, and how the petty side of her heart had been not only unmoved but even selfishly contented as she thought he deserved all this; she told him how she had blamed Ara and shunned him, accusing him of his inability to retain their children from a mad quest, and a lot of other matters; she told him how regretful she now felt, only after Ara too sailed away into danger and Ara’s fate she knew not and dared not guess; she blamed herself for mentally shutting him away for all these years where she could have helped him and relieved his pains, yet being petty-minded she even refused he too was suffering back then. She wished to say more but her words were lost in her tears, and she found herself in her son’s bosom, as he used to nestle in hers when he was a little boy. 

After a prolonged silence punctuated by her feeble sobs, he held her upright and told her that he felt for her, that all these she needed to say to her husband after his return, and that his return was promised and would be soon, and perchance would herald the return of their other long sundered kin. And as he said it a glimpse of foresight struck a chord with him, and Findaráto knew he had spoken truth. 

* * *

After decades of fight Arafinwë did return; though he didn’t manage to bring Artanis home, Lalwen was more than willing to sail back to her homeland along with him. And the word “joyful” was far from adequate to describe the reunion of siblings. As a pardoned Exile Lalwen was supposed to stay on Tol Eressëa, yet the Powers looked upon her case with mercy and decided it better for her healing should she stay in the company of her closest kin, and that she could use the Garden of Lórien for that effect. Findis and Arafinwë wished to remain by her side until she was considered ready for her return to Tirion, and thus Findaráto’s regency was prolonged. 

The Valar decided the returned Eldar could use a period of time for healing, mourning for the loss, and resettling to their daily life, before a formal festive session to celebrate the triumph over Morgoth and the close of the wars on the now lost lands of Beleriand. It was all very reasonable. Findaráto saw to that he had visited all the households to Tirion and asked after the wounded and the bereft, before he started the preparations for the coming celebration. In some way the streets of Tirion started bustling again, though to this date they exhibited not even a fifth of the city’s former glory. The envoys from Valmar, Taniquetil and Lórien were coming more often, and envoys from Alqualondë started to appear in the palace of Tirion. Best of all, it was reported that Lalwen would very likely move out of Lórien before the festival started, and a delighted Findaráto hastened to the Garden to see for himself how well his aunt was recovering, and returned even more delighted. 

Three weeks before the opening of the festival, Findaráto received a royal delegation from Valmar, headed by Prince Ingwion. And the second of the prince was Astaraurel. Therefore in a blessed afternoon when Findaráto was ambling under the trees as he had not had the luxury to do for many years, he came across, by chance, Astaraurel’s family. The older elf asked if he could have a private talk with the prince of Tirion, to which Findaráto agreed. 

Thus under the trees of Tirion Astaraurel opened his heart to Findaráto. He admitted without hiding that he had formerly thought rather poorly of his only daughter’s betrothed, merely because of Findaráto’s minor involvement in the rebellion of the Noldor. He told him his views were now greatly altered after what he saw and endured in Endórë, and after he heard the tales about the wisdom, valour and most importantly kindness of the Noldorin Prince Finrod as retold by the Edain who joined forces with the Host from Valinor. He said of a continued friendship between the Firstborn and the Secondborn which could not have been possible without the endeavours of that said prince. Now Findaráto replied that he accepted Astaraurel’s apology, and he also should ask for the latter’s forgiveness for leaving his daughter behind in a most irresponsible fashion. He said, half jestly, that the Mortals’ tale might very likely be over-flattering and that he himself wouldn’t want to believe in half of their account, though the twinkles of pride in his eyes betrayed him. In the end, he asked, a little wistfully, after Astaraurel’s family; and at this, the Vanya beckoned his wife, sons and daughters to join him, so that he could confidently prove the Noldorin prince that they were all faring well, returning to the life before it was interrupted by warfare. 

When Astaraurel bade his farewell to Findaráto, and led his family away, Amarië remained. As soon as her parents and brothers were out of sight, she jogged to her betrothed with quick paces, and wound her arms around Findaráto’s neck with such force that the latter staggered. Within a second Findaráto found he was now engaged in the most intoxicating kiss he had ever kissed, that the feelings it brought him were almost surreal, yet it was so real and so lively at the same time, like a first kiss; only after they drew back in preparation for another kiss, did he realize that he indeed had never kissed his beloved in his returned life, with his new hröa.  


**Author's Note:**

> Findaráto -- Finrod
> 
> Arafinwë (Ara) -- Finarfin
> 
> Elwë Singollo -- Elu Thingol
> 
> Curufinwë Fëanáro -- Fëanor
> 
> Artanis -- Galadriel
> 
> Endórë -- Middle-earth
> 
> Fëa(r) -- soul(s)
> 
> hröa(r) -- body/bodies
> 
> Astaraurel: a Quanya name made up by name generator [http://elffetish.com/QuenFrame.php] that I assigned to Amarië’s father, containing elements “astar” (faith) and “aurel” (Elf of Valinor)
> 
> Lindar & Falmari: both are names that the Teleri of Aman call themselves; Teleri, which means late-comers, does not sound to me like a name that a kindred would introduce themselves with.
> 
> The Noldor and the Teleri of Aman officially made up with one another after the War of Wrath, therefore I set Finrod’s return to a time before that event for the purpose of this story.
> 
> I find no canonic writing concerning Lalwen’s activity in Middle-earth, or whether she survived the First Age, and whether she returned to Valinor after the War of Wrath if she survived indeed. I chose a fate for her to my personal liking.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and reviews are most welcomed!


End file.
